


Unfinished Untitled Joetrick Fics

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Please read the notes before reading





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> So these are pretty poor quality fics that I haven't finished and probably aren't ever going to finish. Recently, I have found myself moving out of Fall Out Boy and writing for them (I have like 0 ideas, and there aren't any stories on here to inspire me) and moving into a new band and writing for them. I literally haven't gotten into a new band for three years (since FOB) and it's delicious... but I didn't want to have loads of unfinished FOB fics on my IPad notes when I write something new. I at least hope that people read my new project when it's out(that may be a long time) even if they aren't interested in/don't care about the band or the people I'm writing about, I'd at least hope they find it believable or at least something to read if they like my writing (suprisingly there are people out there!) even if they don't appreciate my new venture.
> 
> So here are the stories. I'll add history/preface/ inspiration for each. Hardly classic literature but I hope people will get a kick out of them.
> 
> Yours truly  
> Donniestan

History/Preface

Unedited fic in the vein of mania shorts series. 

 

Joe had three voicemails from Patrick, and he hadn't listened to any of them.

He unplugged his phone from the portable charger he'd taken with him to the studio: thanked the rest of the guys, and left. It was pointless calling Patrick now; he'd only pretend that he wasn't vaguely annoyed by Joe's absence..

. When he pulled into the driveway Joe noticed that the lights were still on. Either Patrick was up, or had fallen asleep watching the Simpsons or the like. The latter was true: when Joe entered the living room Patrick was fast asleep on the couch. Louis was sitting in his lap, panting expectantly. 

. " Traitor," Joe said, even though they'd had him for years and it hadn't taken long for the grouchy dog to warm to Patrick. They even had the same birthday.

Joe migrated to the kitchen, where Patrick had obviously eaten all the Korean tacos (and the sour cream, and the goats cheese...) and hadn't left any for him. He was considered the pros and cons of waking him up for a little late night argument, but this line of thinking was proved pointless as Patrick stumbled into the kitchen doorframe

. "...home....?" 

"You ate all the tacos!" Joe's voice was husky from a day of talking.

Patrick rubbed his neck. " Huh..." he made to leave

. " Hey!" Joe said, maybe a little too harsh. "You're not getting off that easily!" Wandering back in, Patrick frowned. He'd started to grow a beard.

Joe had accosted him in the bathroom one morning last month; " You haven't shaved since last year..." he had mumbled, wrapping his arms around Patrick's wide shoulders and feeling his warm skin through the soft fabric.

Now, Patrick looked at him inherently. Joe let it go and shut the fridge with a sigh. --- "We're going to be finishing up the rest of the songs here next week." Joe said conversationally, as he took out his clothes for the day. Patrick was still sprawled out under the bedcovers; he probably hadn't even heard. " Here?" came the sleepy reply. "Yes, here."

Joe thought about the state of his and Patrick's relationship when the Damned Things had started. In short: pretty awful. Patrick had come to a show once in 2010, all slim limbs and twitchy, ill-disguised nervousness. At the time, Joe had contemplated if Patrick was going to save face, rather than out of actual interest for the band. Conservations with him later had however proved the first thought wrong.

. " They were here before, remember." Joe continued. " Mmm. Yeah." Patrick moved under the covers and said no more. 

. Again Joe wondered if Patrick didn't want to be reminded of something that had manifested when they were apart. It was a startling realisation for Joe that they had always been together while doing Fall Out Boy, and always been apart when it was defunct. While they were good on their own, they always seemed to be better together. He couldn't take another album, though. And Patrick couldn't take any more touring. " It wears me out," he said. " Like, from the inside out. I'm giving everything all the time. That's not to say I don't enjoy it, but, you know, it's tiring." Even when they were together, Joe thought, they were allowed to be different. Patrick really didn't like heavy metal music that much, and Joe tried very much to like electronic music and constantly failed... but they were always supportive of each other's projects. 


	2. Two

History/Preface

I started this in August and aimed to have it done by September.... oh dear. Still decent though. 

It was just evening in Miami; the brightness of the airport intensified by the lasting rays of the sun outside. As Patrick stared at an advertisement and sweated, the heat pooling under his shirt, he shared a small smile with the guitarist of his band, who was tall and dark and named Joe. Patrick looked away in embarrassment as he wasn't eager to show his prominent affections towards his bandmate. 

The whole band except Pete was sitting on a hot metal bench waiting, waiting, waiting.. and Patrick couldn't speak for the others, but he knew that he was aching for Chicago, as it was the end of their short winter tour and they were all due a ride home. 

There was a sudden tannoy overhead.

" .... Valuable and important information... we are sorry to announce that the nine thirty flight to Chicago has been delayed due to unforeseen circumstances. The predicted time for take off is now eleven thirty five. We regret..." 

The airport was busy, and hot even for Florida. They were sat on some blue seats, Pete and Joe either side of him, when Patrick spilled a green energy drink all down his shirt. He spluttered and felt his face flushing. Before he really registered it, Joe came back from a store with a cheap Miami Marlins sweatshirt, orange and blue and white. Patrick felt like a fraud. 

The time eventually came when Andy had to leave at just past eight because he was catching the quarter to nine flight to Milwaukee. 

" I'm sorry, guys." Andy's embrace was firm and he waved as he made his way to Gate 29. Pete watched him go with a sorrowful expression on his face; he had described him, a countable number of times, as the glue that held them all together. It steadily started to grow darker outside, and they sat outside in the smoking area watching planes and plumes of grey smoke drift across the setting sun. 

Patrick coughed and took another sip of bottled water that Andy had bought him before he left. 

He got up to look at the boarding information. Milwaukee had taken off. Stragglers from Omaha, ten o clock, and half past, Cheyenne, were still hanging around, kids yelling and eating noisily. Chicago still bore the ominous DELAYED in red. When they went back inside, they took a seat in the cafe where they had eaten before, as the silent staff shut up the store and the lights flickered off, cloaking the space in darkness. 

All the shops were closed; shutters half pulled down over the frontage. Walking down the length of the airport, Patrick felt his stomach rumble at the signs advertising churros with hot chocolate and home made burgers. One restaurant looked closed, but it was still open; he could see people queuing under the glow of the green lights inside. There was another smoking area at the other end- it was properly black outside now. 

Omaha was queuing for Gate 7. Silence reigned.

It was an odd thing, loneliness. 

Cheyenne took off. 

" I'm staying here." Pete announced when he came out of the restroom.   
Joe looked up from his book, face stony yet agitated.  
"What do you mean?"  
Pete ran a hand through his hair.   
" I mean, I'm staying in the airport hotel here. I have money, I can't go home yet... I can't go on that plane, I'll lose my mind." His hair stood on end; it made him look even more maniac.  
" What the hell?" Joe looked at Patrick, who remained silent. He didn't have the energy to talk.  
" What the hell, dude?" Joe continued angrily. " You always leave, you dick! So you don't want to come home? You don't want to be with us?" 

" I'm sorry, guys. This isn't about you..."   
" So you're leaving us? You aren't going back to Chicago..." Joe's face was stony and serious, resolute.   
Pete ignored him, but he smiled sadly at Patrick as he made his way towards the sign for the airport hotel, his exit (was there even an exit? Other than a flight back home?) slowly.

" Dick."

The electronic board told them that gate information would be available in five minutes, so Patrick got up to go to the toilet again. But he sat in a different cubicle, just for some variety. Is this what my life is coming to? he thought mildly.

It's just me and him now. 

Patrick couldn't even blush at this point. He didn't even feel remotely tired. When the gate number was announced, it took fifteen minutes for the line next to it to actually start moving. Joe rubbed his arm absently as they waited for the woman with the scanner to check their boarding passes. 

Right at the front of the plane, it smelt like- actually, it didn't smell like anything at all. Was that even possible? The aisle seat, Pete's seat, was empty and Patrick let Joe sit near the window, watched him as he shoved his bag under the seat. Worried for him. 

The cabin became fathomless and dark as the lights faded out and the plane began to slowly move, creaking and shifting as though it was going to fall apart. It turned the corner onto the yellow-marked runaway, and somewhere deep below him Patrick could feel a surge of energy, a rumble of anticipation. He felt sweat dampen his forehead and his cheeks. God, to hold Joe's hand...

And then they weren't in Florida anymore. 

" You know..." Patrick opened, seeing a mild flicker of interest in Joe's eyes.   
" At least... you know if anything happens... at least we're going home now..."   
" Yeah." Joe closed his eyes and didn't say anything for three hours after that. Patrick was used to him being distant sometimes.. but this felt like he was in an entirely different galaxy. With a different sun. 

It took three hours of trying to put his head on the curve of Joe's shoulder, reading the inflight magazine, trying to memorise men's perfume descriptions and pick his favourite watch, eating all his food because his stomach was killing him with hunger, closing his eyes when he got sick of reading, drinking all his water and contemplating starting on Joe's and going to the obscenely small bathroom decorated with an image of a smiling family across one wall. 

" Crew, 20 minutes to landing."   
There was still a line of people waiting for the bathroom. Joe opened his eyes and finally spoke, his voice hoarse.  
" Patrick...I was just thinking maybe you would want to stay at my place... it's only like half an hour away... you could call your mom..."  
Patrick was startled by this preposition but couldn't say no.   
" Just for the night, yeah? And I'll leave in the morning. Afternoon. Whatever."   
" Okay." 

In the end it was Joe who called Patrick's mom. He sounded as polite as possible.  
" Yes... yes he'll be alright. I'll look after him. He won't be cold. Yes it's in a safe area... okay, you too. Bye, Mrs Stump." He hung up promptly, then suddenly looked horrified.  
" Oh, shit! I should have asked you if you wanted to talk to her."  
" I can't pretend right now." Patrick rubbed his eyes.

Joe's apartment loomed over them in the early morning, barely revealed in the glow of the streetlight. Once they were inside, Patrick felt like a fool; there was only one bed in Joe's room, and it was obvious that he had a roommate. He stuttered, clutching his falling-apart duffel bag, standing in the doorframe.

" Patrick. You can sleep here." Joe looked at him in the half-light, the intensity of his eyes watered down in the darkness. 

Joe's bed was freezing, and Patrick kept shifting trying to keep comfortable under layers of blankets. It was only February, after all. He wanted to run a finger down the length of Joe's spine under his shirt. Nearly did, until Patrick felt his eyes closing send everything closed in around him. 

 

It was one in the afternoon on Wednesday when Patrick woke up wearing nothing but the Marlins sweatshirt and a pair of boxers; he felt bizarrely like one of his own song lyrics. Joe offered him a ride home, playing a new CD he liked on the speakers, windows down because the sun was shining on their faces. Odd for this time of year, but Patrick could definitely take it. 

On his porch Patrick thanked Joe as his mom opened the door and nearly suffocated him with her hug. All afternoon, he watched trash TV and ate the pumpkin squares that his mom had been saving for after dinner. 

He called Pete; suffice to say it was not what he had been expecting.

" Hey, Pete, Buddy, how are ya...?"  
" I'm still in fucking Florida!" Pete sounded seriously pissed.  
" What the hell, dude!"  
" Tell me about it. Oh,so last night after I left, I stayed in the airport hotel on my own pretty much regretting like, every life decision I've ever made, planning to catch the seven twenty five back home, but I overslept until ten and the next flight to Chicago boards at four-"  
" Catch it! You still have time!"  
" No, I booked one ticket for the six o clock to Milwaukee-"  
" Milwaukee? What the-"  
" Okay, listen, listen, I'm gonna find Hurley-"  
" You nuts, dude?"  
" I'm gonna find Hurley and regain my inner balance." Pete managed to sound both smug and pitiful at the same time.  
" Anyway, dude..." Patrick sighed.   
" What's going on with you?" Pete asked him.   
" Oh, did you call Joe yet? Apologise?" Patrick tried to not sound accusatory.   
" Sure. He's not that pissy anymore."  
" I slept at his apartment when we landed." Patrick said quietly, just to tell someone.   
" Whoah! You got back at what, 4am? I didn't know you had that much stamina!"  
" Pete, no! We didn't do anything like that. We just kinda-"  
" Neeeeded each other?"   
" No..."  
" Oh shit, have to go!"  
" You're in Miami airport, dude! Where are you going to go?"  
" Sorry, can't talk! Joe wants to bone you! Bye!" And then he hung up. Patrick just stared at the phone for a long time. 

Attempting to stay awake as long as possible was never going to work; he fell asleep at just past eleven. 

It was weird, being home again. 

On Thursday, Patrick went to his dad's house and played video games with his stepbrother, then got brown sugar ice cream at the drive through on the west side of town with that side of his family. His dad listened to his story and groaned in all the right places. 

" You glad to be home, kid?" His dad asked quietly.   
" Mm. Yeah. Definitely." 

Sunday brought promise of his dad's wife's mother's birthday party (she was ninety) and of course he was invited. He had met her only once, when he was a decidedly bratty fifteen and only interested in himself. His mom was going to be out of town with some of her old friends: she told Patrick to make sure he got dropped off at home by an aunt or something. 

He was already excited- not. 

This celebration was being held at a hotel on the very edge of Glenview, practically Mount Prospect. It was already five o clock when Patrick stood on his porch, waiting for his dad to come and pick him up, wearing a light blue button up that his mom picked out for him that he'd never wear anywhere else. He had grimaced at himself in the mirror not some five minutes ago. 

It was barely seven when Patrick stood over the sink in the hotel function room bathroom, after talking to countless step relatives and cousins, after eating half his body weight in wet profiteroles and smoked salmon, when he realised that he wanted to be sick. 

" I'm in a band," he had told some old woman to whom he was apparently related.   
" I might have heard of them," she enquired. " What are you called?"  
" Fall Out Boy."  
" No, I haven't heard of them."

And then, his obnoxious distant cousin:

" Yo, it's Patrick! Who still doesn't have a girlfriend!" 

The bathroom wall had some terrible looking stains on it. He thought about how most of his life was spent in random restrooms across America. The one in Miami Airport had had bright red doors. 

Patrick felt his stomach groan. It was just like his body to get sick when he needed it the least.

" You okay, kid?" His dad paused from a conversation with his sister in law when he finally left the bathroom.   
" I feel ill," Patrick announced to him, headache already returning.   
" Oh. Is your mom home?"  
" No."  
" Do you want to go home?"  
" Yes." Patrick just felt stupid. No one here wanted to give him the time of day, let alone a ride home.  
" I can drop you off at home, kiddo-"  
" It's fine. I can call a friend." Joe would be okay with that, wouldn't he? Joe...

His voicemail yielded;

" Hey, what's up this is Joe Trohman, also known as the Fro-maniac, i currently have diarrhoea, constipation and vomiting all at the same time so it really saddens me to tell you that I can't take your c-" it cut off suddenly. It took four calls, while Patrick stood outside the hotel in the winter darkness, for Joe to pick up.

" Hey, P, my man."  
" Are you high?"  
" No, just tired. What can I do for you? Room service?"  
" You know that family party I told you about? I'm at that now. And I feel really sick. I'm not myself..."  
" You want me to come bail you out? Is that it?"  
" Yeah, um... Please."   
" Okay, okay." Joe grumbled.  
" Thank you. Thank you!"  
" Just tell me the address and I'll be right there."

It took Joe half an hour to be right there. He pulled up in his slightly dented car, at the bottom of the long set of steps that led to the entrance of the hotel. Patrick said goodbye to his dad and started walking down; at the same time, Joe got out and began walking up. They met in the middle. Joe was wearing a The Shining shirt and sweatpants, and he gazed at Patrick like he was a precious metal, his eyes wide and blue. Patrick's Joe. He didn't know it yet, but...

" Wow." Joe said.   
" What? Now let's go." Patrick swayed slightly. There was a dangerous lurch in his stomach.   
" Wow... I mean, you look nice."  
" I don't. I look ill."   
" That shirt-"  
" Please don't say it brings out my eyes or something. Just don't."

They got into the car. Some metal radio station was playing quietly.   
" So, how ya feelin?"  
" Terrible. I feel like I'm looking at myself from down below. Like I'm watching a movie and I'm the main character or something..."

" You done feeling sorry for yourself?" Joe turned off the radio and started the car. 

As Joe drove, Patrick found that talking helped him distract himself, so he prattled on about mindless things.  
" Yesterday, I was having a clear out. And I found this old mood ring, from like a cereal box or something."  
" Or something."  
" So, What did you do yesterday?'  
" What is this small talk?"  
" I'm trying to ask you stuff!"  
" Why, man?"  
" Please just talk to me. It helps." Patrick suddenly felt his eyes water. How sick was he?   
" Okay..." Joe had both hands on the steering wheel.   
" Yesterday, I went to synagogue with my parents and Sam. We haven't been since last year. It was good. Later we went out for dinner. I had onion rings and a chicken burger. It was good. Then I stayed over with them. We watched this movie about aliens. It was good."  
" Wow........ you had a good day, huh?"   
Joe barked out a laugh, and pulled into Patrick's driveway.


	3. Three

History/Perface

While Dancing on Ice was still on TV, I tried to write this. By the time I actually got round to writing it, the show was finished and I hadn't gotten anywhere. I'm not cut out for writing long fics, I just get bored.   
So with my new project, I'm going to aim to write over a number of years. I'm just not good at writing in a small timeframe for anything longer than a Drabble (do people still use that word anymore?)  
In this one, Patrick is some d list celebrity who gets put on an ice dancing show with Joe, an Olympic medalist. It's that bad.

Winter of 2002

"Patrick? Paaatrick?"

Patrick turned his head away from the box of Lucky Charms.  
"What?" He shouted, mouth full of cereal.  
"Paaatrick!" 

He huffed, set down the box on the kitchen counter, and emerged into the lounge to find the TV blaring full blast and his kid cousin grinning at him, chocolate smeared around his mouth.  
"Patrick!"  
"Lay off." Patrick spat in return. 

" From the SUBURBS of OHIO," a male voice from the TV was shouting.  
"What the hell's that?" said Patrick. He picked up the remote from its position on the floor and pointed it at the TV.  
"Damn thing's broken. Mom!" Patrick yelled.

" THE LIKES OF WHICH THE WORLD HAS NEVER SEEN BEFORE."  
"Mo-om!"  
On the TV appeared to be some kind of figure skating competition. Patrick had never been interested in figure skating, and he wasn't going to start now. The remote still didn't work. The TV blared incessantly.  
" Ugh!" Patrick threw the remote across the room.

" ONLY SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD."   
Patrick glanced at the screen, and his gaze stayed.

This boy was tall, dressed in black, and currently whirling across the ice rink relentlessly. Patrick's kid cousin screamed blandly.

" Paaaaaaaatrick!"

The boy on ice was spinning with one leg behind him, and then spun in the air for what seemed like hours. Patrick watched, not even realising that he was standing up, or that his mother had entered the room.

" TRIPLE AXEL!" roared the man from the TV. The boy spun and spun and spun and spun and glided across the ice, all to winding orchestral music that Patrick had never heard before.

" Who the fuck's that?" He said.  
" Language!" His mother scolded.  
"Who the-" Patrick's face was bright red, and he was spluttering, spittle going everywhere. The boy's long, lean legs were perfectly straight as he kept gliding, again and again.

Winter of 2014

Patrick knew that he had made a stupid decision even before he got to New York.

Life had been kind to him so far; a degree in American Studies at the University of Illinois, a short lived career in numerous punk bands; and then producing the hit song of 2008 on a whim and launching his own jazz act. It didn't really work, however, and by the time he was approaching thirty Patrick was ready to escape the limelight forever.

His agent, a hapless forty-something called Rachel, had barely booked him anything significant since his performance at a charity gala two years previously. He was at home in Chicago, watching TV idly and getting ready for a life of solitude with his ex-girlfriend's cat, who was remarkably still kicking, when he got the call.

"Patrick, have you ever been ice skating before?"  
He held the phone away from his ear. Rachel was practically shouting.  
" No...."  
" Well, you better start! One of my leading insiders-" she used to come up with stuff like that all the time, Patrick had forgotten-" has given me info that a leading UK show on ice dancing with celebrities is looking for a few minor stars to pad out the US version of the show..."  
" Minor?" Patrick seethed.  
"Admit it. You're not exactly getting papped every time you go to Trader Joe's...."  
" Haha..."   
" Anyway," she said, clearing her throat.  
" This job would involve hands on training with a professional ice dancer, and a good sum of cash!"  
" I'm not broke. Well..."   
" That's not the point, Patrick! Why not? You told me yourself that you have no girlfriend or similar, no commitments... why not try something new! There is one condition though."   
" What? What could possibly be bad about participating in this Skating With the Stars rip-off?" Patrick sighed. " You remember, that crappy show that aired a few years back and got cancelled?"  
Rachel ignored him. "The US version of the show is deciding to-quote on quote- mix things up a little with some same-sex ice skating couples..."  
Patrick was furious.  
" What are you trying to imply?"  
" I'm not trying to imply anything, Patrick. Just, if you do get some guy, don't freak out or anything."  
" Why would I...? Oh never mind," he concluded, agreeing hesitantly and letting himself in for what he would later regret.

 

New York City was cold and dark when Patrick arrived, although lit with an expanse of friendly white lights. He was exhausted already, and seriously reconsidering every decision he had made up to that moment. Tomorrow, he would be having a master class with two of the competitions judges, and he wasn't feeling enthusiastic. Why did he think he could do this? In his little hotel room on the Upper East Side, he dreamt of going onto the ice and falling straight through it into freezing water. 

Bright and early the next morning Patrick woke up, showered briefly, ate a cold breakfast, and booked yet another taxi to the ice rink. How much was this all costing him? He'd lied if he said he hadn't needed any extra cash. But he didn't want to be the guy who did this just for the money. He had never been that guy... he had written a whole unsuccessful EP on the dangers of it, for God's sake.

Before entering the ice rink, Patrick was filmed looking, for all he knew, like an idiot. It felt weird to talk in front of a camera; but he knew that he had to shed any insecurities he had or would never even make it to the first live show. 

"Hello!" The skating professionals greeted him with terrifyingly calm smiles, which was the exact opposite of what Patrick felt. The rink was colder than he expected and it took what felt like half the time to lace up his boots. He tentatively put one foot onto the ice.  
"It isn't going to hurt you!" one of them shouted. Patrick stepped fully onto the rink, let go of the side, and promptly fell on his ass.

 

"You shouldn't be afraid to fall," the woman of the professionals, who was even shorter than Patrick, told him sign a strange sort of enthusiasm.  
"Even our professional skaters had to learn," added the man, whose eyes twinkled. Patrick, who had already tripped and fallen what seemed like a hundred times, could only skate extremely slowly and was not ready to meet his coach, partner, whoever he was going to be skating with. 

"Go outside," said the smiling cameraman, with one of those fluffy things Patrick has always wanted to know the name of.   
Patrick did. And he waited. And was filmed waiting. Someone tapped him on the shoulder suddenly, and he felt himself getting more and more nervous as he turned around. 

The man (of course it was a man) was tall, much taller than Patrick, and had dark hair. He introduced himself as Joe Trohman; Patrick's new skating partner. His manner was quite brisk as he explained that they would be training all day, every day; he lived in Brooklyn and they would be practicing at the ice rink there; they needed to work hard for their first performance, which was in two weeks time. 

In Brooklyn, Joe watched reservedly as Patrick attempted to skate. By the end of the first day he was already helping him and instructing him precisely on what to do; and Patrick was already exhausted from the work. And that was only the beginning, he thought. Or he was just very unfit (that was probably true).

When he went home to his rental that night, having decided to stay in New York and ditch the hotel, Patrick couldn't help googling this Joe Trohman on his laptop. What came up were old YouTube videos of Joe from more than a decade ago; videos of him skating in endless competitions. One video that Patrick faintly recognised caught his eye.

Oh my God, that's him...

The boy from the Olympics the winter Patrick was eighteen, the video of him exactly as he remembered it, gliding and whirling across the ice with such grace and elegance...   
I have to work with him, thought Patrick, and felt overwhelmed. 

Before the end of the first week Patrick could only skate vaguely quickly and could only just skate on one leg without wobbling or falling over. Fallen over he had; Patrick felt bruised all over, but happy with what he had achieved.  
On the second or third day he had brought up Joe's past skating achievements. Wikipedia said that he retired from professional skating in 2007 after doing it since he was sixteen, and taught ice skating in New York. Patrick hadn't realised that Joe had won Olympic gold in 2002, and he asked him about it.

"I remember watching you on TV when I was younger," he said shyly. "You had quite the accolade..."  
"I was only eighteen then," Joe sighed.  
" I was too!" Patrick burst out loudly, then controlled himself. "I mean, wow, so young."  
" Skaters usually peak early," said Joe, and that was all he would say on the matter.

 

The day of the first live show Patrick fell over twice in rehearsals, feeling more anxious than ever. He and Joe had to skate to "This Love" by Maroon 5, something that the latter told Patrick was gentle and not too fast.

"People are guaranteed to fail If they pick a too fast song and don't match it in their skating." Joe had said earlier. "It's much better to progress over time and just be good, average even, if you want to stay in."  
"Do you want to win, then?" Patrick asked without thinking.  
Joe snorted.  
"It's not about winning. Unless we're in the final, I'm not going to ever think about winning. Just focus on each week individually." 

Eventually the time for the live show came. They were on third, and Patrick was chatting to some other contestants while he waited, Joe taking to some other professional ice skaters.  
"You know he's the best, right?" Christine, an older soap star, told him.  
Patrick took a break from deep breaths for a minute.   
"Who?"   
"That man, your partner. Wasn't he in the Olympics? I think he's absolutely sublime."   
Jed, a gawky young basketball player, leaned in to talk to them.   
"I think it doesn't matter who you're with," he said, with an air of superiority. Then, he was called for his performance, as he and his partner were going first. They performed well, but all Patrick could concentrate on was his own dance. Joe went over to him.   
"Try not to worry too much." His hand went to Patrick's shoulder. "As long as you try your hardest, I'll be happy, alright?" 

 

Patrick looked around at the sheer scale of the ink rink. Spectators lined the area to his right and flashing lights in blue and purple announced their arrival. He could hear the voiceover saying his name, yet it didn't really feel real, like he was listening to someone else's. Joe nodded at him seriously.


End file.
